Shona MacLEAN - The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

The sky was darkening as I approached Straloch in the late afternoon, and the storm broke just as I turned into the broad sweep of the drive. Thunder and lightning ripped from overhead and I forced the horse into a gallop for the last few hundred yards. Nevertheless, I was drenched, a poor specimen of a visitor, by the time we reached the courtyard at the front of the house. A servant answered my banging on the door and called for a stable boy to take my horse. He heard my hurried commission in the front hall and then, evidently deciding I might be who I said I was, allowed me into the body of the house. A young woman emerged into the light from the darkness of the east wing, watching for the visitor to arrive. She came forward, her flowing silk skirts rustling almost in time with the rain which poured down from the gutters outside. Her hair was dark, and she did not wear it up, but long and loose, brushed back from her face to show cheekbones that looked to be the work of some master sculptor and not formed by God. Her eyes were grey crystal. She was too young to be Straloch’s wife, but a little too old, I thought, to be one of his daughters.

‘It is a messenger from Banff,’ said the servant, ‘for the master. He says he has a letter from the provost.’ The man’s bearing implied that he was not entirely convinced that what I said was the truth, but the young woman seemed satisfied and dismissed him.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘The laird is not in the house at this minute. He is still out, hunting. He should return within the hour, or sooner, if this storm does not pass. The mistress is resting, but will be up for dinner. Can I be of any help?’

I looked at her, unsure as to how to proceed. She had a bright and open manner, and her face spoke of intellect, yet the provost’s dire warnings were ringing in my ears, and I knew I must wait on an answer from Straloch himself. ‘I’m sorry, I am not …’

She made a gesture of awkwardness. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I have not said who I am. My name is Isabella Irvine; my aunt is the lady of this house.’ She waited.

‘I am Alexander Seaton,’ I said. ‘I have come to see the laird of Straloch on the business of the burgh of Banff. I am sorry, but I am under authority to place my commission only into the hands of Robert Gordon himself.’ Although her feet had not taken a step, she looked as if her whole body had shrunk backwards, and not at my rebuttal of her offer of help, but at the mention of my name. She recovered herself quickly enough, but that she had been shaken, and that her manner towards me was now somewhat changed, was unmistakable.

She indicated a large, high-backed chair beside the fire. ‘If you wish to wait until the laird returns, you may sit there. I will have some refreshment sent.’ Then, with little more conversation or ceremony, she excused herself and departed up the stairs and out of my sight. I took the chair with gladness and, since it appeared no one would be around to see it, I removed my boots and let my feet dry by the fire. A servant brought ale and warm bannocks. As I took my rest and my refreshment, I tried to think what might have occasioned the change in Isabella Irvine’s manner towards me. Could it really be that the mention of my very name, bad as it was in Banff but surely not notorious here, was enough to put fear or contempt into young women in lairdly houses all over the north? I did not think so. And yet it was my name that had marked the change in her, as if borne in on a cold wind from the North. I pondered it, as the rain beating down outside contended with the roar of the fire within: I knew the name Isabella Irvine, but I could not think how or from where.

I had not too long for reflection, for within the quarter-hour I could hear a commotion of horses and riders out the front, and servants started busying themselves from one room to another, crossing the hall and back again like busy ants. As the great oaken front door was opened, a whole troupe of children – at least six or seven of varying sizes – rumbled down the stairs from an upper gallery, followed by their cousin, Isabella. ‘Children, give your father a minute to get his breath. Boys! Come back in here this minute.’ Two of the smaller boys had rushed through the door as a weary huntsman had come in it, and out into the courtyard, calling for their father. They returned a moment later, utterly drenched, one in each arm of Robert Gordon of Straloch. The others rushed at him with questions about the hunt, and complaints about not being allowed out by their overzealous jailer, their cousin Isabella. Three older boys and a girl followed their father in from the hunt, the girl calling out orders behind her as to what was to be taken to the kitchens, and what hung in the stores. There was arguing and boasting about the size of the kill, and laughter about the escape of a wild pig. Only the hounds noticed me, as they contended with each other for proximity to the fire. It was once the initial excitement of the homecoming died down and Straloch had been helped from his soaking hunting coat by a servant, that Isabella Irvine announced me to her uncle. Her voice was low and her eyes filled with a quiet anger; she watched me as she talked.

The laird of Straloch turned towards where I now stood, between his dogs and with my back to his hearth. ‘Mr Seaton? You are here on business from Banff?’

‘I am, sir. I have a letter from the provost, Walter Watt, which he bids me wait for a reply to.’

He nodded and said briskly, ‘Then let us see to it in my library. Robert, give instructions to Hugh about the gutting, and see that the birds are hung. Margaret, go with your cousin and see if she cannot turn you back into a lady. I will hear over much about it from your mother if she cannot.’ The smaller children were also ushered away, and I followed the laird down into his library in the west wing of the house. It was a long, high-ceilinged room with large windows to the west, affording the best possible light. William Cargill’s small and tidy lawyer’s study bore no comparison to this workroom of the laird of Straloch. There were more books in this room than I had seen in the room of any other individual, even of Dr Forbes. From where I stood I could see books of every size, colour and description. Huge charts were spread out on tables near the windows, tables that were also piled high with books and sheaves of script. I had not much time for scanning the shelves, for the laird was a man with little time to waste.

‘You have a letter for me, then, Mr Seaton.’ I handed him first the letter from Walter Watt, without the map; Jamesone’s missive would also keep. He broke the seal and took the letter over to the window, leaving me little chance of ascertaining its contents. I watched him as he read. He had been transformed from huntsman into learned scholar by little more than the changing of the room and the light. Poorly governed locks of hair receded from a high, intelligent brow, and the fingers that held the letter were long and slim, fitted for the great cartographer that he was. His eyes were kind, tired almost. After he had read some way down the first page he glanced up at me. His mind too, like his niece’s, had some knowledge of my name. He did not pause for long though, and continued to the end without any word. When he had finished reading, he folded the pages once again and walked to his desk, placing the letter in a small wooden case that he then locked. He looked at me directly. ‘You know the contents of this letter?’

For a brief moment I considered pretending that I had no notion of what was in it, in the hope that Straloch might reveal something – what? – to me. But that was a dangerous game, and I had always come last or too late in games of strategy. ‘I have an idea of its message, but I have not read it, nor has the provost given me any detailed account of what he has written.’